THE  GIFT  OF 

MAY  TREAT  MORRISON 

IN  MEMORY  OF 

ALEXANDER  F  MORRISON 


THE  IVORY  GATE 


THE  IVORY  GATE 


BY 

ARMISTEAD  C.  GORDON 
ii 


Sunt  geminae  Somni portae ;  quorum  aiterafertur 
Cornea,  qua  ven's  facilis  datur  exitus  umbris ; 
A  Item,  candenti  perfecia  nitens  elephanto ; 
Sed  falsa  ad  coelum  mittunt  insomnia  Manes. 

VIRGIL. 


New  York  and  Washington 

THE  NEALE  PUBLISHING  COMPANY 

1907 


Copyright,   1907,  by 
THE  NEALE  PUBLISHING  COMPANY 


PS 


"When,  loved  by  poet  and  painter 

The  sunrise  fills  the  sky, 
When  night's  gold  urns  grow  fainter, 

And  in  depths  of  amber  die,  — 
When  the  moon-breeze  stirs  the  curtain, 

Bearing  an  odorous  freight  — 
Then  visions  strange,  uncertain, 

Pour  thick  through  the  Ivory  Gate" 
q 

MORTIMER  COLLINS. 


to 

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431923 


AUTHOR'S  NOTE 

A  majority  of  the  verses  in  this  little  volume  were 
first  printed  at  various  times  in  literary  periodicals  and 
newspapers.  "In  Dreams"  appeared  in  The  Continent; 
"Parson  Murray,"  "Four  Feet  on  a  Fender,"  "Trans 
formation,"  "Her  Rival,"  "Ah,  Si  Jeunesse  Savait," 
"Lip  Service"  and  "Law  at  Our  Boarding  House" 
were  contributed  to  the  Bric-a-Brac  department  of  the 
old  Scribner's  Monthly,  which  later  became  The  Cen 
tury;  and  "Enise"  first  saw  the  light  in  the  columns 
of  the  Richmond  (Va.)  Transcript,  in  1878.  "The 
Little  Old  Church"  and  "Cast  Out"  were  originally 
published  in  a  New  England  monthly  whose  name  I 
have  forgotten,  conducted,  I  believe,  by  Dr.  Wash 
ington  Gladden;  and  "Long  Ago"  is  embalmed  in  the 
faded  pages  of  the  long  since  defunct  South  Atlantic. 

Several  of  the  others  date  back  to  a  youthful  asso 
ciation  with  The  Virginia  University  Magazine. 

They  are  all  old,  in  the  sense  that  they  have  been 
long  written.  They  are  all  young,  in  that  they  speak 
to  their  author,  with  the  pathetic  voices  of  the  Greek 
chorus,  of  days  and  friends  that  vanished  with  his 
youth : 

"We  return,  we  return  no  more." 

A.   C.  G. 


CONTENTS 

Page. 

Dedication 1 1 

In  Dreams    12 

Parson   Murray    14 

Four  Feet  on  a  Fender 17 

Transformation    20 

Enise     22 

"Toujours  Jamais" 24 

Long  Ago     26 

Her    Rival    28 

"Ah,  si  Jeunesse  Savait!"   30 

To   Euterpe    32 

Idolatry     34 

The  Little  Old  Church   35 

Rome  and  Egypt   38 

Lip   Service     39 

In  June    42 

Caprice    44 

To  One  in  Another  Country 46 

Law  at  Our  Boarding  House 47 

The  Judgment  of  Paris 49 

A  Tree  in  Teviotdale   51 

The  Siren's  Song  of  Hylas 52 

Guinevere  to  Lancelot    53 

Cast   Out    55 

By  the  Sea   57 

Tides     58 


DEDICATION 

TO  ONE  WHO  WILL   UNDERSTAND 

Only  you  can  stir  once  more 
Pulses  that  my  boyhood  knew, — 
Open  wide  the  bolted  door, — 

Only  you; 

Lead  the  lost  hours  dancing  through 
Spaces  where  in  days  of  yore 
Roses  bloomed  and  skies  were  blue. 

Grim  the  gray  years  grow,  and  frore 
Gleams  the  frost  where  shone  the  dew. 
Naught  those  lost  hours  may  restore, 

Only  you. 

Let  me  dream  the  old  dreams  o'er, 
Love  is  kind  and  faith  is  true, 
Seeing  with  youth's  eyes  once  more 

Only  you. 


,   .      .   ..IKPREAMS. 

In  dreams,  when  nights  are  cold,  and  winter  winds  are 

blowing, 
When  the  hoar-frost  on  the  house-tops  glitters  in  the 

chill  moon's  beams, 

Old  summer  days  come  back,  with  June's  gala  roses 
glowing 

In  dreams. 

In  dreams  you  wander  with  me  beside  the  restless  river 
Where  the  willows  touch  the  surface  and  the  ruffled 

water  gleams, — 

And  I  watch  the  sunshine  on  it  where  the  weeping 
willows  quiver 

In  dreams. 

In  dreams  your  soft  voice  haunts  me,  and  your  love- 
speech,  low  and  tender, 
As  I  bend  my  head  to  listen,  like  an  angel's  whisper 

seems : 

There  is  dew  upon  the  grass  there;    and  I  catch  the 
morning's  splendor 

In  dreams. 

In  dreams  no  fate  divides  us;    you  are  mine  to  love 

forever. 
How  the  wild  birds  carol  o'er  us,  and  the  golden 

sunlight  streams. 

Love  is  mirrored  in  your  eyes,  as  the  willows  in  the 
river, 

In  dreams. 


In  dreams,  in  dreams  we  part  not.    The  day  dawn  and 

the  morrow 
May  take  you ;  but  each  morning  with  the  dreamer's 

vision  gleams.  » 

You  are  mine  when  night  recalls  you,  with  your  young 
heart  free  from  sorrow, 
In  dreams. 


»3 


PARSON  MURRAY 
Of  James  City,  in  Virginia 

Head  peruked  and  shaven  face, 
Stately  step  and  air  of  grace, 

Suit  severe  of  sombre  black, — 
Smiles  across  his  lips  go  fleeting 
While  he  gives  my  Lady  greeting, 

With  a  swift  bend  of  his  back. 

"Dine  on  Thursday?    What  could  be 
More  delightful?    Then,  D.  V., 

I  shall  be  here  on  that  day;" 
And  a  lowlier  bow  then  made  he, 
Kissed  his  gloved  hand  to  my  Lady, 

Mounted  steed  and  rode  away. 

Parson  Murray.     Past  the  road 
Where  the  fallow-fields  lie  broad, 

In  the  grove  of  trees  up  there, 
Parson's  house-lights  faintly  glimmer 
As  the  evening  light  grows  dimmer 

And  more  cool  the  evening  air. 

Never  voice  of  scolding  wife 
Maketh  sad  the  parson's  life — 

Never  voice  of  crying  child ; 
And  the  winter  evenings  closing 
Find  him  reading,  dreaming,  dozing, 

Drinking  knowledge  undefiled. 


Slippers  for  the  parson's  feet 
(Which,  in  sooth,  are  slim  and  neat) 

Soft  white  hands  have  made  a  score ; 
And  the  bright  eyes  on  him  glancing 
Sometimes  set  his  heart  a-dancing; 

This  they  do,  but  nothing  more. 

All  the  men  the  country  round 

Fear  his  small-sword's  lightest  wound; 

In  a  fox-hunt  no  one's  horn 
Is  so  lusty  in  its  warning 
On  the  fine  November  morning 

Just  before  the  sun  is  born. 

At  the  ball  where  all  the  girls, 
White  arms  bare  and  shining  curls, 

Sparkling  teeth  and  heavenly  eyes — 
Set  the  young  bucks'  hearts  a-tremble, 
Where  the  county's  best  assemble, 

Parson  carries  off  the  prize. 

To  the  gay  young  gallants  there, 
Buckled  pumps  and  powdered  hair, 

Parson  Murray  yields  no  whit 
In  the  stately  dance,  whose  measure 
Is  the  cadenced  throb  of  pleasure, 

Grand  old  dance,  the  minuet. 

Never  any  yeoman  wight 
Stripped  more  gladly  to  a  fight 

Than  he  to  the  boxing-glove; 
And  a  brooklet's  voice  at  vesper 
Is  not  sweeter  than  his  whisper, 

When  a  lady  lists  his  love. 


In  the  dining-room,  my  Lord, 
Standing  by  the  huge  sideboard, 

Watches  with  admiring  eyes 
How  the  parson  brews  the  toddy, 
Saying  it  is  very  odd,  he 

Cannot  make  it  in  such  wise ! 

Tithe  and  cummin,  anise,  mint, 
Hath  the  parson  without  stint, 

Hath  as  well  the  people's  trust. 
Many  in  his  years  spent  there 
Hath  he  christened,  and  with  prayer 

Many  given  back  to  dust. 

Not  a  kindlier  heart  than  his 
Ever  stirred  a  breast,  I  wis ; 

Never  smiled  a  sweeter  face ; 
And  his  pure  unselfish  nature 
Works  delight  for  every  creature, 

Beast  and  bird  and  human  race. 

Well  he  knoweth  hymn  and  psalm  ; 
When  the  Sabbath's  holy  calm 

Spreads  its  benison  o'er  earth, 
Well  he  reads:    "Good  Lord,  deliver!" 
Well  for  life's  gifts  thanks  life's  Giver: 

Praises  God  for  death  and  birth. 

Many  years  have  passed  away 
Since  in  old  Colonial  day 

Knelt  the  people  at  his  word. 
In  the  county  of  Jame.?  City, 
(On  his  tomb-stone  "Christ  have  pitie!") 

Sleeps  the  parson  with  the  Lord. 


16 


FOUR  FEET  ON  A  FENDER 

It  is  anthracite  coal,  and  the  fender  is  low, 

Steel-barred  is  the  grate,  and  the  tiles 
Hand-painted  in  figures;  the  one  at  the  top 

Is  a  Japanese  lady,  who  smiles. 
There's  an  or-molu  clock  on  the  mantel;  above, 

A  masterpiece:  fecit  Gerome; 

On  the  fender  four  feet — my  young  wife's  feet  and 
mine, 

Trimly  shod,  in  a  row  and — at  home. 

My  slippers  are  broidered  of  velvet  and  silk, 

The  work  of  her  ringers  before 
We  stood  at  the  altar.    To  have  them  made  up 

Cost  me  just  a  round  five  dollars  more 
Than  a  new  pair  had  cost  at  my  bootmaker's  shop ; 

But  each  stitch  was  a  token  of  love — 
And  she  never  shall  know.    Ah,  how  easy  they  are 

On  their  perch  the  steel  fender  above. 

Words  fail  me  to  tell  of  her  own.    There's  a  chest 

In  her  father's  old  garret ;  and  there 
'Mid  a  thousand  strange  things  of  a  century  past 

She  discovered  this  ravishing  pair. 
They  are  small,  trim  and  natty;   their  color  is  red; 

And  they  each  have  the  funniest  heel. 
White  balbriggan  stockings,  high-clocked,  underneath 

These  decollete  slippers  reveal. 

17 


Ah,  many  a  time  in  my  grandfather's  day 

They  led  the  old  fellow  a  dance. 
They  were  bought  with  Virginia  tobacco,  and  came, 

Who  would  guess  it? — imported  from  France. 
How  odd  that  yon  stern-faced  ancestor  of  mine 

In  the  earlier  days  of  his  life 

Should  have  loved  her  who  tripped  in  these  red  slippers 
then, — 

The  young  grandmamma  of  my  wife! 

The   course   of   some   true   loves,   at   least,    runs   not 
smooth, — 

And  I'm  glad  that  it's  so,  when  I  see 
The  trim,  dainty  feet  in  the  red  slippers  there 

Which  belong  to  my  lady — and  me! 
Two  short  months  ago  in  this  snug  little  room 

I  sat  in  this  soft-cushioned  seat  ; 
No  companion  was  near  save  my  pipe.    Now,  behold 

On  the  polished  steel  fender  four  feet ! 

Let  them  prate  of  the  happiness  Paradise  yields 

To  the  Moslem, — the  raptures  that  thrill 
The  soul  of  the  Hindu  whom  Juggernaut  takes, — 

The  bliss  of  Gan-Eden; — and  still 
I'll  believe  that  no  gladness  which  man  has  conceived 

Can  compare  with  the  tranquillized  state 
That  springs  from  two  small  feet  alongside  one's  own, 

On  the  fender  in  front  of  his  grate. 


18 


L'ENVOI 

In  vain  the  illusion.    The  trim  feet  are  gone. 

They  trip  by  my  door  every  day ; — 
Yet  they  stop  not  nor  tarry ;  but  swiftly  pass  on, 

Nor  can  I  persuade  them  to  stay. 
And  a  bachelor's  dreams  are  but  dreams  at  the  best, 

Be  they  never  so  fond  or  so  sweet. 
The  anthracite  blaze  has  burned  low;   and  behold 

On  the  fender  two  lonesome  old  feet ! 


TRANSFORMATION 

If  it  be  true  that  Time  doth  change 
Each  fibre,  nerve  and  bone, — 

That  in  a  seven-years'  circling  range 
New  out  of  old  hath  grown, — 

Time's  a  magician  who  hath  made 
A  mystery  passing  strange: — 

No  outward  symbol  is  displayed 
To  hint  the  subtle  change. 

Whate'er  the  magic  he  hath  wrought 
Within  his  seven  years'  span, 

Your  life  is  yet  with  beauty  fraught 
As  when  the  charm  began. 

The  rounded  form  of  other  years 
Still  keeps  its  crowning  grace ; 

And  June,  for  April's  earlier  tears, 
Plants  roses  in  your  face. 

But  your  great  beauty  touches  me 

Now,  in  no  other  way, 
Than  doth  the  splendor  of  the  sea, 

The  glory  of  the  day. 

I  dreamed  I  loved  you  in  past  years, 

Ah!    that  was  long  ago. 
How  far  the  time-blown  love-vane  veers 

This  rhyme  may  serve  to  show. 


The  shifting  seasons  soon  enough 
Beheld  the  bright  dream  fade; 

I  learned  to  know  the  fragile  stuff 
Of  which  some  dreams  are  made. 

We  meet  now  with  a  kid-gloved  touch, 
Mere  courtesy  each  to  each ; 

That  earlier  hand-clasp  overmuch 
Outvies  our  later  speech. 

And  so,  perhaps,  it  may  be  true 

That,  as  you  pass  me  by 
In  careless  wise,  you  are  not  You, 

And  I'm  no  longer  I. 


21 


ENISE 

Very  fair  you  are,  Enise, 

For  you  hold 

In  your  eyes 

All  the  blue  of  summer  skies, 
In  your  tresses  all  the  shimmer 

Of  red  gold. 

And  your  cheeks  are  pink,  Enise, 

As  a  rose; 

And  your  mouth 
A  sweet  blossom  of  the  South  ; 
And  tip-tilted  like  its  petal 

Is  your  nose! 

And  that  form  of  yours,  Enise, 

Lacks  no  grace 

Lilies  wear; 

And  your  bosom's  swelling  heave 
Tells  of  sprites  imprisoned  there, 

I  believe, 

That  would  fain  be  free,  Enise, 
For  awhile. — 
Yet  your  charms, — 
Eyes  and  hair  and  throat  and  arms,- 
None  of  these,  Enise,  bewitch  me 
Like  your  smile. 


Did  you  ever  know,  Enise, 

Of  that  creed 

Which  the  old 

Rabbins  of  the  Talmud  hold 
Of  all  spirits?    Should  I  tell  you, 

Would  you  heed? 

You  have  lived  alway,  Enise, — 

Thus  they  say, — 

At  the  birth 

Of  your  body  on  the  earth, 
Passed  your  ever-living  soul 

Into  this  clay. 

And  your  guardian  angel  came, 

Spread  white  wings 

O'er  you  there, — 
Touched  his  finger  to  your  lips 

With  a  prayer, —  , 

And  you  knew  no  longer  ante-natal  things. 

As  the  Rabbins,  I,  Enise, 

Hold  it  too: — 

When  those  wings 
For  a  moment  are  uplifted 

Memory  brings 
Visions  of  a  happier  life 

Back  to  you. 

Do  you  marvel  thoughts  like  these 

Should  beguile 

Minds  like  mine? 
I  can  nothing  else  divine 
That  could  lend  such  holy  sweetness 

To  your  smile. 


23 


"TOUJOURS  JAMAIS" 

'Twas  a  waltz  of  Weber  they  played  that  night, 

And  she  was  the  gayest  dancer  there, 
For  her  swift  feet  twinkled  in  rhythmic  flight 

As  a  bird's  wings  through  the  air. 
"One  turn !"  I  pleaded,  and  heard  her  say, 

Through  the  music  of  oboe  and  violoncello, 
"You  are  just  too  late!"    And  she  slipped  away 

In  the  arms  of  another  fellow. 

Her  face  was  so  honest  and  frank  and  fair, 

Her  figure  so  lithe  and  trim  and  neat, — 
Such  a  faint  gold  tinge  in  her  silken  hair, 

Her  voice  so  low  and  sweet, — 
That  heels  over  head  in  love  I  fell ; 

And  all  through  that  dreamy  summer  weather 
I  flattered  my  soul  that  she  loved  me  well — 

When  we  were  alone  together. 

I  purchased  her  bonbons,  I  gave  her  flowers, 

And  day  after  day  in  some  shady  nook 
I  read  to  her  love-songs  in  lazy  hours 

From  some  red-lined,  gilt-edged  book. 
I  dreamed,  as  the  summer  faded  away, 

I  was  tying  a  knot  no  time  could  sever, — 
For  my  ring  that  she  wore  had  "Toujours  jamais" 

Thereon ;  and  that's  forever. 


Month  after  month  I  followed  my  quest. 

A  bud  from  her  bosom,  a  smile  from  her  lips, 
Would  thrill  my  heart  with  a  vague  unrest, — 

Or  a  touch  of  her  finger  tips. 
Yet  no  matter  the  time,  no  matter  the  place, 

Where  roses  blossomed,  when  leaves  turned  yellow, 
She'd  leave  me  alone  with  a  smile  on  her  face 

At  a  word  from  that  other  fellow. 

Though  perturbed  thereat,  I  could  but  beguile 

My  heart  with  "a  spoiled  girl's  coquetry!" 
For  she  ever  gave  me  her  fondest  smile — 

When  the  other  one  was  not  by. 
And  I  built  air-castles  out  in  Spain 

In  a  most  extravagant,  reckless  fashion; 
And  my  heart-strings  echoed  their  one  sweet  strain, 

To  the  touch  of  a  master-passion. 


L' ENVOI 

That  was  long  ago ;  yet  whenever  at  night, 

From  my  neighbor's  parlor  across  the  way 
That  waltz  of  Weber  rings,  airy  and  light, 

'Neath  her  fingers'  magic  sway, 
Old  thoughts  come  back  in  a  mystic  maze, 

With  the  music  of  oboe  and  violoncello, 
Of  the  treacherous  girl  with  the  frank,  fair  face, 

Who  married  the  other  fellow! 


LONG  AGO 

Long  ago,  when  life  was  younger,  and  life's  burden 

cast  no  shadow, 

When  the  gladness  of  existence  had  a  summer  foun 
tain's  flow, 

Side  by  side  we  trod  dim  woodland,   river-bank,   or 
haunted  meadow, 

Long  ago. 

Long  ago  faint  odours  held  us  in  the  purple  fields  of 

clover, 
Subtler  in  its  sweet  suggestion  than  all  other  blooms 

a-blow  ; 

Hand  in  hand  we  sat  together  where  the  clover-heads 
hung  over, 

Long  ago. 

Long  ago,  in  magic  distance  there  were  silver  voices 

singing, 
And  the  far-off  cow-bells  tinkled  where  the  cows 

came  home,  a-row; 

Waist-deep  in  purple  blossoms  did  we  listen  to  that 
ringing, 

Long  ago. 

Long  ago   old  joys  possessed  us  with   an   undefined, 

strange  yearning ; — 
Loving  and  beloved,  we  recked  not  in  Love's  golden 

after-glow 

How  Youth  passed  us,  like  a  dream  to  the  dreamer 
unreturning, 

Long  ago. 

26 


Long  ago  the  hand  I  clasped  there  had  its  loving  hand 
clasp  broken, 

And  the  voices  ceased  from  singing;    and  the  cow 
bells,  faint  and  low, 

Died  away  as  died  the  echoes  of  the  words  that  we  had 
spoken 

Long  ago. 

Long  ago  down  paths  divergent  our  parted  ways  we 

wended ; — 
Through  no  scented  meadow,  mine,  with  its  clover 

blooms  a-blow. 

Has  Love's  sunset  come  for  you?     My  heart's  gay 
summer  ended 

Long  ago. 


27 


HER  RIVAL 
(At  Long  Branch.    Season  of  1880.)* 

"The  belle?"    'Tis  hard  to  say.    And  yet 

There  is  a  Cuban  here — 
"Handsome?"    Well,  yes.     "Her  style?"    Brunette— 

The  darling  of  her  sphere. 

I've  watched  her,  and  she  never  moves 

But  some  man  walks  close  by  ; 
And  yet  there's  no  one  whom  she  loves 

Or  hates — .    "The  reason  why?" 

Just  wait  a  little,  ma  cherie  : 

"Her  manners?"    Neither  grave 
Nor  gay.    "The  golden  mean,"  you  say; 

And  yet  the  women  rave — 

"In  praise?"    Ah,  no!    One  seldom  hears 

Her  lauded  by  their  lips ; 
Yet  the  sweet  silence  that  she  wears 

Their  malice  doth  eclipse. 

"Brilliant?"    At  times.    This  nut-brown  maid 

Shines  brightest  when  she  meets 
Her  match.    Thus  conflict  oft,  'tis  said, 

Inspires  the  doughtiest  feats. 


*  Paraph  rased  from  a  society  letter  in  the  newspaper  press. 
28 


"Her  style  of  beaux  ?"    Both  young  and  old 

Yield  fealty  to  her  sway: 
Blonde  beauty  with  his  beard  of  gold, 

And  ugliness  in  gray. 

Last  night  we  sat  'neath  the  summer  moon, 
And  her  breath  was  like  the  rose ; 

And  odours  as  sweet  as  buds  in  June 
Follow  her  where  she  goes. 

"I  love  her?"    Truly,  that  I  do. 

'Tis  not  long  since  I  spoke 
My  love.    I  don't  mind  this  to  you,— 

It  ended  all  in  smoke! 

What,  crying?    "Hate  her?"    Then,  I  fear 

I've  carried  the  jest  too  far: 
No  rival  is  she  of  yours,  my  dear, — 

And  her  name  is  just — Cigar! 


29 


"AH,  SI  JEUNESSE  SAVAIT!" 

Had  Youth  but  known  some  years  ago, 
That  freckled-faced  small  girls  would  grow, 

In  most  astounding  way, 
To  lovely  women  in  whose  eyes 
The  light  a  man  most  longs  for  lies — 

Ah,  si  jeunesse  savait! 

Had  Youth  but  known — my  youth,  I  mean, 
That  you  would  walk  as  regnant  queen 

Of  hearts  in  this  new  day — 
That  elfin  locks  could  change  to  curls 
Softer  than  any  other  girl's — 

Ah,  si  jeunesse  savait! 

Had  youth  but  known  the  time  would  come 
When  I  should  stand,  abashed  and  dumb, 

With  not  one  word  to  say, 
Before  you,  whom  in  days  gone  by 
I'd  tease  until  you  could  but  cry — 

Ah,  si  jeunesse  savait! 

I  little  dreamed  in  those  old  days 
Of  undeveloped,  winning  ways 

To  wile  men's  hearts  away — 
When  wading  in  the  brook  with  you 
I  splashed  your  best  frock  through  and  through. 

Ah,  si  jeunesse  savait! 


30 


Your  pretty  nose — ah,  there's  the  rub, — 
I  used  to  laugh  at  once  as  "snub" 

Is  now  nez  retrousse; 
Upon  the  one-time  brown,  bare  feet 
You  wear  French  kids  now,  trim  and  neat, — 

Ah,  si  jeunesse  savait! 

The  brief  kilt-skirt,  the  legs  all  bare, 
The  freckled  face,  the  tangled  hair, 

These  things  are  passed  away: 
You  are  a  woman  now  full  grown, 
With  lovers  of  your  very  own — 

Ah,  si  jeunesse  savait! 

You'd  -plead  to  be  my  comrade  then, 
With  tearful  big,  brown  eyes. — Ah,  when, 

My  winning,  winsome  May, 
Will  words  like  those  your  lips  a-tween, 
Come  back  again  ?    No  more,  I  ween ! 

Ah,  si  jeunesse  savait! 

Time  turns  the  tables.    It  is  meet, 
Doubtless,  that  I  here  at  your  feet 

Should  feel  your  sceptre's  sway — 
Should  know  you  hold  me  'neath  your  heel, — 
Should  love  you — and  should — well,  should  feel: 

Ah,  si  jeunesse  savait! 


TO  EUTERPE 
(An  American  Girl) 

With  cinctured  robe  and  banded  hair, 

On  feet  with  sandals  shod, 
She  came,  whose  heavenly  name  you  bear, 

The  daughter  of  a  god, 
Cycles  of  years  ago.     She  came 

From  Grecian  woods  and  streams, 
To  set  the  hearts  of  men  aflame, 

And  fill  their  days  with  dreams. 

You  come  a  newer  day  to  bless, 

To  banish  grief  and  care, 
To  stir  men's  souls  with  happiness 

In  visions  no  less  fair. 
To  fill  our  hearts  with  dreams  you  come, 

Lovely  and  free  from  blame, 
With  songs  of  peace  and  hope  and  home, 

As  long  ago  she  came. 

The  trumpet  of  the  soul  to  shrill, 

To  brim  the  eyes  with  tears, — 
To  break  sad  hearts  with  joy, — are  still 

Her  glory  through  the  years. 
Not  yours  to  bid  life's  pulses  beat 

With  passions  fierce  as  these : 
And  yet  your  words,  like  hers,  are  sweet 

As  Hybla's  honeyed  bees. 


With  cinctured  robe  and  banded  hair, 

On  feet  with  sandals  shod, 
She  came,  whose  radiant  name  you  bear, 

The  daughter  of  a  god, — 
The  maid  of  lyric  song.    That  name 

She  bore,  you  do  not  wrong: 
With  love  you  set  our  hearts  aflame, 

Yourself  a  heavenly  song. 


33 


IDOLATRY 

Words  of  praise  and  prayer  enthral 
All  your  soul  that  worships  where, 

With  the  lights  and  shadows,  fall 
Words  of  praise  and  prayer. 

O'er  your  slight  form  bending  there 

Rings  the  fluted  choral  call, — 
Sunbeams  haloing  your  hair. 

All  the  soul  that  in  me  lives, 

Spent  with  sin  and  fraught  with  care, 
Only  for  your  beauty  gives 

Words  of  praise  and  prayer. 


34 


THE  LITTLE  OLD  CHURCH 

I  went  to  the  little  church  to-day 

Over  the  brook,  beyond  the  hill. 
It  looks  as  it  looked  when  I  went  away, 

Green-yarded  and  white-paled  still. 

I  was  a  youth  when  I  crossed  the  sea 
To  wander  in  foreign  lands,  and  lo! 

Now  there  is  gray  in  my  beard.    Ah,  me! 
Can  it  be  so  long  ago  ? 

There  used  to  be  in  those  far-back  years 

A  little  girl  with  a  happy  face, 
And  a  sweet,  strange  fashion  of  smiles  and  tears, 

And  a  young  fawn's  agile  grace, 

Who  sat  each  Sunday  serenely  there 

In  that  little  church,  where  the  sunlight  fell 

Through  the  window  over  her  yellow  hair 
And  over  her  face — ah,  well ! 

Ah,  well !    And  I — oh,  that  little  maid, 
I  loved  her  truly.    Each  Sabbath  day 

I'd  go  there  and  watch  how  the  sunshine  played 
In  her  hair,  ere  I  went  away. 

Ere  I  went  away.  That  was  long  years  back, 
And  now  I  am  middle-aged,  forsooth. 

It  is  hard  that  a  brave,  strong  lad,  good  lack, 
Must  give  up  his  brave,  strong  youth, 


35 


While  a  little  church  for  years  can  seem 

Unchanged.    Why,  to-day  they  sang  that  strain 

That  they  sang  long  ago, — it  was  like  a  dream 
Of  my  dead  youth  come  again. 

I  sat  in  a  dim,  back-corner  pew 

Where  I  sat  when  a  boy,  and  closed  my  eyes, 
Till  thoughts  of  the  past  and  the  present  grew 

Into  solemn  mysteries. 

I  dreamed  I  was  young  again, — that  there 
In  the  seat  three  paces  in  front  of  me 

The  sunshine  was  dancing  on  yellow  hair, 
And  I  thought:    "Can  this  thing  be? 

"I  went  to  her  grave  'neath  the  churchyard  tree 
On  this  very  morn,  ere  I  came  in  here, 

Where  I  thought  of  the  things  that  used  to  be 
Till  I  felt  on  my  face  a  tear. 

"And  now  to  think  if  I  open  my  eyes 

I  shall  see  her  kneel  in  that  pew  and  pray 

With  a  soul  that  is  ready  for  Paradise — 
As  I  did  ere  I  went  away!" 

I  opened  my  eyes  and  looked,  but  lo! 

The  pew  was  empty.    The  sunlight  strayed 
Up  and  down  on  the  cushioned  seat,  as  though 

It  sought  for  the  little  maid. 

A  butterfly  drifted  in,  and  flew 

For  a  moment  about,  then  out  again. 

"Into  my  life  she  came,  like  you, 
And  went,"  I  faltered  in  pain. 

36 


And  the  pastor  read,  "Even  as  water  spilled 
On  the  ground  that  cannot  be  gathered  again 

Are  the  children  of  men,"  and  the  sad  words  filled 
My  soul  with  a  sadder  pain. 

When  lo !  the  butterfly  drifted  in 

Once  more,  and  the  pastor's  lips  then  read, 

"As  little  children  are,  free  from  sin." 
"She  is  gathered  to  God,"  I  said. 

And  I  said,  "You  went,  but  you  have  returned. 

I  shall  see  her  again  in  the  years  to  be, — 
In  the  years  to  be!"    And  my  cold  heart  burned 

By  the  wayside  there  in  me. 

I  had  not  entered  for  many  years 
A  church  of  Christ  as  I  did  to-day. 

Till  this  morning  mine  eyes  had  not  known  tears 
Since  the  time  when  I  went  away. 

I  think  I  shall  go  to  this  church  always, 

Till  they  carry  me  out  to  the  graveyard  tree, 

For  the  sake  of  that  dear  girl's  sweet  young  face, 
And  the  days  that  used  to  be. 


37 


ROME  AND. EGYPT 

With  flower-face  nestled  close  against  his  heart, 

And  upturned  eyes  wherein  the  love-lights  wake 

To  fade  away  in  tears  for  sweet  love's  sake, 

And  clinging  arms,  and  lips  that  smile  apart, 

And  whispered  words  that  set  the  heated  blood 

Marching  to  fiery  music,  and  perfumes 

Subtle  as  stealthiest  thieves,  fit  for  the  mood 

Of  loves  like  theirs,  and  in  her  breast  white  blooms 

Of  lotus,  drifted  on  the  ebb  and  flow 

Of  passion's  tides,  she  holds  him  in  her  thrall. 

Oh,  he  could  wish  no  deeper  joy  than  so 

To  die!    Her  dusk  hair  were  a  funeral  pall 

Meet  for  a  king,  and  death  itself  were  sweet 

If  her  encircling  arms  might  be  his  winding  sheet. 


1 8 


LIP  SERVICE 

(In  York  Town  Church,  1773.    Modernized  from  an 
old  MS.) 

Outside  the  church  the  breezes  blow 

And  wave  the  summer  trees. 
The  fans  within  go  soft  and  slow 

To  stir  a  fainter  breeze. 
The  clerk  doth  shrill  with  thin  voice  cracked 

His  keen  falsetto  strain, 
While  in  the  family-pew,  high-backed, 

Behold  our  lovers  twain. 

Arranged  in  filmy  furbelows, 

Cool  things  of  fluffy  white, 
Shod  with  high  heels  and  pointed  toes, 

She  is  a  winsome  sight. 
A  blue  cocked  hat,  bewrought  with  braid, 

Her  dandy  sweetheart  bears, 
With  shorts,  high  hose  and  coat, — well  made 

The  raiment  that  he  wears. 

"Good  sooth,"  he  thinks,  his  love  beside, 

"When  such  a  hap  shall  be, 
This  bonny  flesh  and  blood  my  bride, 

What  gladder  heaven  for  me?" 
The  well-closed  door  from  gossip's  view 

Doth  shut  them,  saints  be  praised ! 
This  fashion  of  her  father's  pew 

His  seven  wits  hath  dazed. 


39 


He  holds  the  corner  of  her  book 

The  while  she  bends  in  prayer. 
"What  matter  if  one  kiss  I  took — 

A  trifle  light  as  air?" 
Her  breast  scarce  heaves,  her  face  is  meek, 

Her  eyes  are  in  eclipse : 
"Or  shall  I  touch  it  to  her  cheek, 

Or  lay  it  on  her  lips?" 

She  little  knoweth  what  rash  thought 

His  bosom  doth  possess: 
Her  soul,  on  heavenly  pinions  caught, 

Forgets  earth's  earthiness. 
All  worldly  love  and  wordly  dreams 

Are  lapsed  in  heaven-born  bliss. 
A  most  unmeetful  time,'  it  seems, 

For  our  bold  lover's  kiss. 

Thoughts  heavenward  borne  on  wings  of  prayer 

Slight  hap  to  earth  may  draw. 
The  soft  salute  doth  miff  our  fair, 

And  on  his  nearer  jaw 
With  mittened  hand  she  plants  a  thwack 

Which  kindles  all  his  rage. 
Forth  pew  and  church  to  good  steed's  back, 

His  anger  to  assuage! 

No  Sabbath  ever  more  shall  see 

Our  lovers  in  yon  pew 
From  selfsame  book  the  Litany 

Lovingly  going  through. 
No  fee  from  him  of  Spanish  eight 

Stowed  in  a  buckskin  glove 
The  parson  ever  shall  elate 

To  preach  their  wedded  love. 


40 


L' ENVOI 

A  time  for  all  things,  ladies  gay, — 

Times,  gallants,  for  each  thing, 
Since  Love  may  go,  or  Love  may  stay 

Who  hath  a  fickle  wing. 
Lip-service  fellows  not  with  prayer, — 

Ye  may  not  woo  in  church, 
Lest  kisses  welcome  otherwhere 

Here  leave  you  in  the  lurch! 


IN  JUNE 

The  beetles  boomed  in  the  corn, 
And  the  wheat-shocks  stood  a-row, 

And  the  roses  bloomed  on  that  summer  morn 
When  we  parted,  years  ago. 

The  woodbine  to  the  breeze 

Its  trailing  banners  flung, 
And  little  birds  piped  in  the  leafy  trees, 

And  love  and  life  were  young. 

It  has  been  so  long,  I  forget 

Why  it  was  that  we  quarreled  there, 

Although  I  can  well  remember  yet 
The  red  rose  in  your  hair. 

But  lost  are  features  and  form : — 

A  hazy  passion  of  tears — 
A  vision  of  sunshine  after  storm — 

These  are  all,  in  the  lapse  of  the  years. 

And  I  sigh  to  think  how  soon 

We  forget  and  are  forgot, — 
How  the  stem  that  vaunted  its  bud  in  June 

In  the  autumn  knows  it  not. 

Your  face?    I  forget  your  face — 
I  forget  our  love  words  there, — 

But  never  that  June  day's  perfect  grace, 
Or  the  glory  of  that  air. 


And  it  still  is  sweet  to  me 

To  recall  the  rustling  corn, 
And  meadow,  and  bird  and  leafy  tree, 

And  the  light  of  that  June  morn, 

And  the  scarlet  and  green  that  showed 

Where  the  trumpet-flower  clung, 
And  the  gold  where  the  heart  of  a  red  rose  glowed, 

When  life  and  love  were  young. 


CAPRICE 

£  She's  the  winningest  face — 

Not  another's  so  fair  is — 
In  the  eyes  of  the  writer,  at  least,  of  this  ditty, — 

Wears  velvet  and  lace — 

If  she  likes — and  her  hair  is 
The  color  of  amber — a  girl  from  the  city, 

And  they  call  her  Caprice. 

Most  appropriate  name — 

Such  a  variant  creature 
I  never  have  met  with  before,  upon  honor : 

One  moment  all  flame, 

Then  like  ice  is  her  nature; 

And  at  one  time  I  bless  her,  and  then  I  "Plague  on 
her!" 

This  fickle  Caprice. 

At  the  utmost  eighteen 

I  should  say  that  her  age  is ; — 
She  promised  to  tell  me,  but  never  has  done  it. 

She  walks  like  a  queen — 

I  could  write  twenty  pages 
About  the  slim  foot  with  the  button  boot  on  it, 

That  belongs  to  Caprice. 

In  her  luminous  eyes 
Gleams  a  mischievous  madness ; 
As  blithe  as  a  bird's  song  her  musical  laughter. 
But  I've  seen  with  surprise 
The  dark  shadows  of  sadness 


44 


Steal  into  those  eyes  when  the  silence  came  after — 
So  quaint  is  Caprice. 

I've  repeatedly  made 

The  most  serious  endeavor 
To  guess  at  her  secret,  to  fathom  her  nature  ; 

But  the  sunshine  and  shade 

Interchanging  forever 

Only    make    more    mysterious    this    charming    young 
creature, 

Whose  name  is  Caprice. 

With  her  hand  on  my  sleeve, 

And  her  arch  face  turned  to  me, 
She  says,  "I  adore  you !"  one  moment ;   then  straightly 

Says,  "No,  I  believe 

'Twas  but  fancy :  let  go  me ! 
I  hate  you!"  and  walks  from  the  room  very  stately. 

Funny  girl  is  Caprice! 

I've  a  notion  the  mood 

Of  her  sunniest  spirits 
Belongs  to  the  mortal  that  clothes  her, — her  gladness 

Was  born  with  her  blood ; 

But  her  young  soul  inherits 
From  the  garden  of  Eden  those  shadows  of  sadness 

In  the  eyes  of  Caprice. 

However  this  be, 

Of  one  fact  I  am  certain: 
She  promised  to — 'What  is  this  rhyme  you're  inditing? 

Is  it  written  to  me? 

Then  I  really  will — "  (Curtain.     , 
Who  would  know  just  what  happened,  apply,  please, 
in  writing, 

To  me — not  Caprice!) 

45 


TO  ONE  IN  ANOTHER  COUNTRY 

"To  a  boon   Southern    country   they   have   fted."- 

Matthew  Arnold. 

The  small,  sweet  violet's  blue  eyes  peep 

From  out  its  hood  of  leaves. 
The  glad  world  wakens  from  its  sleep, 

And  swallows  haunt  the  eaves. 

Once  more  returns  a  subtle  sense 

Of  quickening  pulse  and  breath; 
Returns  once  more,  I  know  not  whence, 

Sweet  life,  where  all  was  death. 

And  yet  from  this  heart-breaking  air 

I  miss  thy  words  of  cheer, 
Thy  smile,  thy  touch ;   and  know  not  where 

Thou  art,  who  art  not  here. 

To  some  boon  country  thou  hast  fled, 

Whose  confines  pass  my  ken. 
I  only  know  thou  art  not  dead, 

And  we  shall  love  again; 

Where  small  sweet  violets  blow  like  these, 

And  every  fragrant  thing, 
And  swallows  build,  and  sky  and  breeze 

Speak  of  an  endless  spring. 


LAW  AT  OUR  BOARDING-HOUSE 

As  fresh  as  a  pink  on  the  other  side 

Of  the  boarding  house  table  she  sits,  and  sips 

Her  tea,  while  I  envy  the  china  cup 
That  kisses  her  rosy  lips. 

She's  a  schoolgirl  still  in  her  'teens.    Her  hair 
She  wears  in  a  plait.    We  are  vis-a-vis, 

And  I  am  a  briefless  barrister — 
Yet  she  sometimes  smiles  at  me. 

My  law  professor  would  scowl,  no  doubt, 

Could  he  know  what  havoc  those  eyes  have  wrought 
With  the  doctrines  of  law  he  first  instilled ; — 

What  lessons  those  lips  have  taught. 

"The  clerk  will  issue  a  rule  to  plead, 

And  pleadings  always  with  rules  must  chime." — 
No  need  of  "a  rule  to  plead"  with  her, 

And  her  rule-days  are — all  the  time ! 

That  old  law-maxim  that  text-books  teach 

And  the  judges  regard,  "Qui  facit  per 
Ahum,  facit  per  se"  is  held 

In  ineffable  scorn  by  her. 

In  her  person  exist  together  at  once 

Defendant  and  judge  and  jury  and  clerk, 

So  that  one  would  imagine  to  win  a  cause 
In  this  court  were  an  up-hill  work. 


47 


Yet  whenever  I  sit  at  the  table  there, 

I  fancy  a  table  where  only  two 
Are  company — till  I  say  to  myself : 

"Though  you  lose  the  case,  why,  sue ! 

"E'en  though  she  demur  at  first,  who  knows? 

For  the  rest  of  your  joint  lives,  made  one  life, 
You  may  learn  together  the  lesson  taught 

In  respect  to  Husband  and  Wife." 

Still  I  dally  in  doubt,  though  in  other  things 

I  flatter  myself  I  am  resolute, 
For  a  bankrupt  heart  will  be  the  result 

If  I'm  taxed  with  costs  in  this  suit. 


THE  JUDGMENT  OF  PARIS 

All  day  upon  the  Idan  hills 

King  Priam's  Paris  lay, 
Keeping  his  father's  bleating  flocks, 

Dreaming  his  life  away; 
Till  round  about  him  happy  there 

Gathered  a  glorious  three: 
Star-eyed  Athene,  high  Jove's  spouse, 

And  Venus  of  the  Sea. 

And  Priam's  son  must  needs  adjudge 

A  golden  apple  there, 
Whereon  was  graven,  "Let  me  be 

A  prize  to  the  most  fair." 
So  she  whose  cradle  was  Jove's  brain 

Said,  "Give  to  me,  I  pray, 
And  take  thou  wisdom  to  thy  part, 

And  knowledge  and  wide  sway." 

Then  ox-eyed  Juno  spake,  "Give  thou 

This  bauble  unto  me, 
So  shalt  thou  have  all  wealth  that  springs 

From  land  or  sky  or  sea." 
But  foam-born  Venus,  tossing  back 

The  splendor  of  her  hair, 
Unto  the  royal  shepherd's  gaze 

Her  silver  breasts  laid  bare, 


49 


Saying,  "Behold!    And  if  this  prize 

Shall  well  awarded  be, 
Then  gainest  them  a  love  as  fair 

As  Venus  of  the  Sea!" 
So  Paris  with  his  heart  aflame 

Bestowed  it  in  his  joy, 
And  this  is  how  sweet  Helen  came 

To  fire  the  heart  of  Troy. 

Long  since  the  bleating  flocks  have  died 

That  Paris  watched  that  day ; 
Nor  do  Olympian  dwellers  now 

O'er  Ida  make  their  way. 
Yet  still,  as  Paris  did  of  old, 

Do  men  take  heart  of  grace 
To  barter  wisdom,  power  and  gold 

For  Beauty's  Helen-face. 


"Es  steht  ein  Baum  in  Odenwald 
Das  hat  viel  grune  Aest' " 

By  Teviotside  a  braw  beech-tree 
His  branches  flings  fu'  high. 

A  thousan'  times  my  luve  an'  me 
Ha'e  passed  his  shadow  by. 

A  throstle  whusslit  there  his  sang 
Through  the  blithe  simmer  day; 

We  hearkened,  loiterin'  alang, 
Loof  linked  in  loof,  that  way. 

Adoun  the  path  but  late  I  hied, 
The  beech-tree's  leaves  were  gane; 

Anither  lad  walked  by  her  side, 
An'  reft  frae  me  mine  ain. 

In  Teviotdale  the  tree  still  Stan's, 

An'  I'm  in  Aberdeen 
Wi'  achin'  heart  an'  empty  han's, 

The  wearies'  mon  e'er  seen. 


THE  SIREN'S  SONG  OF  HYLAS 

Hylas  is  coming  through  the  wood, 

The  birds  sing  over  him  where  he  goes  ; 

The  smell  of  the  gum  trees  melts  his  mood, 
Under  his  foot  is  the  red  wild-rose. 

Fair  Larissa  shall  mourn  for  him 
Rapt  from  her  bosom,  as  in  a  dream 

The  lapsing  moons  and  the  waters  dim 

Steep  him  in  slumber  beneath  this  stream. 

I  have  netted  my  hair  in  a  cunning  snood 
To  capture  and  keep  the  beautiful  one. 

The  breath  of  my  beauty  shall  stir  his  blood, 
I  will  hold  him  fast  when  the  dusk  slips  down. 

He  shall  forget  in  his  perfect  pleasure 
The  sorrows  of  them  that  bend  the  oar. 

The  wassail-song  and  the  wine-cup's  measure, 
These  shall  never  touch  Hylas  more. 

Hark  to  his  coming  beyond  the  wood ! 

The  birds  sing  over  him  as  he  goes. 
I  will  pluck  and  wear  in  my  maiden  mood 

The  heart  of  Hylas,  a  blood-red  rose. 


GUINEVERE  TO  LANCELOT 

Gone  is  my  Lord,  the  King ;   and,  Lancelot,  never 
May  I  behold  thy  face  on  earth  again ; 

For  I  have  sworn  it  with  an  oath,  to  sever 
The  bond — blot  out  the  stain. 

Down  into  Lyonesse  my  Lord  is  wending 

His  way  to  fight  with  Modred,  where  his  doom 

Bideth  his  coming,  where  the  crags  ascending 
From  the  dusk  sea  break  in  gloom. 

His  love  is  lost  to  me,  and  yet  he  kissed  me, 
Oh  Lancelot,  stooping  to  me  from  above, 

And  told  me  how  his  kingly  heart  had  missed  me, 
Since  learning  of  our  love. 

O'er  his  blonde  beard  rippled  in  waves  my  golden 
Loose  hair,  and  oh !   he  laid  his  lips  upon 

Mine  eyes,  as  he  was  wont  to  in  the  olden 
Days  that  are  dead  and  gone, 

And  after,  rode  forth,  Lancelot,  and  on-sweeping, 
Went  down  to  Lyonesse  to  meet  his  doom 

In  thickening  shadows,  leaving  me  here  weeping 
Cooped  in  this  nun's  bleak  room. 


53 


Gone  is  my  Lord,  the  King !    And  thou,  oh  lover ! 

Where  art  thou,  Lancelot?    Could  I  see  thy  face, 
And  feel  thy  lip  touch  as  in  days  now  over, 

This  dull,  forsaken  place 

Would  be  as  Camelot  in  time  of  tourney, 
When  thou  as  knight  for  me  didst  aye  enlist. 

Ah !  Lancelot,  love,  there  lies  a  weary  journey 
From  thee  to  me,  I've  wist. 

My  Lord,  the  King,  is  gone!    And  I  have  sworn  it! 

May  such  an  oath  the  white  Christ's  servant  break? 
Oh,  long  as  I  can  bear  it,  I  have  borne  it ! 

Come,  Lancelot  of  the  Lake! 

Mine  be  the  shame,  as  mine  the  sin,  oh  lover! 

Oh  Lancelot,  sweet,  thy  way  unto  me  win ! 
His  doom  Pendragon's  fair  young  head  hangs  over! 

Mine  be  the  shame,  the  sin ! 

Come,  Lancelot,  come,  and  let  us  once  more  wander 
Through  purple  fields,  into  the  brave,  bright  day, 

Where  blossoms  blow,  birds  sing  and  brooks  meander, 
Out  of  this  night,  away ! 

Come,  Lancelot,  come,  and  rain  thy  hot,  quick  kisses, 
As  in  old  days,  on  eyes  and  mouth  and  chin ! 

Mine  be  the  sin  of  all  thy  mad  caresses — 
The  stain,  the  shame,  the  sin ! 


54 


CAST  OUT 

Cold,  oh  so  bitter  cold  the  night, 
And  in  the  darkened  room 

No  single  gleam  to  put  to  flight 
The  shadows  and  the  gloom. 

A  little  baby  lies  asleep 

Upon  the  mother-breast, 
And  tear-dimmed  eyes  a  vigil  keep 

In  agonized  unrest. 

Outside  the  street  is  bright  like  day — 

Outside  in  heedless  wise 
The  heedless  world  goes  on  its  way, 

Nor  dreams  of  tear-dimmed  eyes. 

Perhaps  he  mingles  with  the  throng, 
And  men  and  women  greet 

With  kindly  words  the  living  wrong 
Who  dares  to  walk  that  street. 

Dark,  dark  the  river  rolls,  and  deep 

Beyond  the  garish  light. 
Oh,  why  not  go  and  sink  to  sleep 

In  its  unending  night? 


55 


Ah  no !    The  baby  on  her  breast — 
The  thought  its  being  gives — 

These  hold  her  from  a  dreamless  rest, 
These  keep  her,  that  she  lives. 


There  was  a  time  when  women  loved 

To  look  upon  her  face — 
When  all  the  world  in  which  she  moved 

Was  full  of  peace  and  grace; 


When  laughing  plenty  at  her  feet 
Poured  out  its  lavish  store, 

And  many  a  man  who  walks  that  street 
By  her  pure  being  swore. 


But  now,  the  baby  on  her  breast, — 
And  now,  the  bitter  cold, — 

The  abject  want,  the  wild  unrest, — 
And  oh,  the  tale  is  told. 


BY  THE  SEA 

An  Orphean  power  the  soul  to  stir 
With  music's  voice  is  hers: 

To  wake  the  smile,  to  start  the  tear, 
To  blot  out  days  and  years. 

Outside,  the  wild  waves  tossing  high 

In  ceaseless  monotone 
Moan  to  the  dark  night's  starless  sky 

A  sorrow  all  their  own. 

But  here  no  gloom  of  grief  can  come 

That  may  not  find  relief 
In  tears,  as  sweet  as  love  and  home, — 

The  anodyne  of  grief. 

Vanish  the  days  with  sorrow  gray, 
Smile  earth  and  sky  and  sea, 

What  time  her  witching  fingers  sway 
The  magic  keys  for  me. 


57 


TIDES 

On  a  bright  morning,  in  a  long-past  summer, 
I  sat  with  you  beside  the  ancient  seashore. 
The  sunlit  ocean  boomed  in  on  its  flood-tide, 
And  youth  was  golden. 

In  the  far  ofKng  sailed  the  snowy  shallops. 
The  wanton  waves  were  white  and  silver  crested, 
And  life  was  sunny  as  the  shining  morning 
That  lay  about  us. 

And  you — across  the  years  I  can  remember — 
Yours  was  a  paean  of  young  love  and  laughter, 
While  the  waves  chanting  a  majestic  chorus 
Sang  joy  eternal. 

Now  there  is  winter  in  the  chill,  bleak  sunset, 
That  lies  upon  the  sleepless,  sobbing  ocean, 
As  the  weak  waters  crawl  out  where  the  tide  ebbs, 
And  leaves  us  helpless. 

Life  has  grown  cold  under  a  gray  December, 
The  white-sailed  shallops  of  that  day  have  vanished, 
When  we  together  here  in  summer's  sunshine 
Loved  at  youth's  flood-tide. 

A  little  while,  and  you  and  I,  dissevered 
A  little  while  perchance  in  life's  sad  winter, 
Shall  clasp  lost  hands  once  more  upon  a  seashore 
Beyond  all  parting. 

58 


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